


The Wolf

by rap_ture



Category: Everyman HYBRID, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Angst, LOTS of violence, Lore - Freeform, Other, also a good ol' wlw moment for a second, and of course sadness, this is kind of intense BUTTT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rap_ture/pseuds/rap_ture
Summary: Startlingly detailed, violently aggresive with it's accuracy, nightmares are not new to Damsel. She's not plagued with nightmares as she used to be; it's reached to a certain level of numbness, she's noticed. The nightmares usually depict the loss of her friends' — from Jeff's to Jessa's (a horrible end from which Damsel tries to forget so desperately) to Vinny's — and it always is within their point of view. The details are down to a T from the very creak that makes a certain floorboard in the attic groan, to every tear that she can pin-point on HABIT's flannel, to the way Jeff's beanie makes her ears itch.
Relationships: Jeff/Jessa (Everyman HYBRID), Jessa/Stephanie (Everyman HYBRID)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> so this is more or less my lore for steph! there's some stuff i didn't add, mainly out of laziness, but neverthless .... bam! also i KNOW i got so lazy at the end but i've been writing for hours during a hurricane idc. enjoy!

Startlingly detailed, violently aggresive with it's accuracy, nightmares are not new to Damsel. She's not plagued with nightmares as she used to be; it's reached to a certain level of numbness, she's noticed. The nightmares usually depict the loss of her friends' — from Jeff's to Jessa's (a horrible end from which Damsel tries to forget so desperately) to Vinny's — and it always is within their point of view. The details are down to a T from the very creak that makes a certain floorboard in the attic groan, to every tear that she can pin-point on HABIT's flannel, to the way Jeff's beanie makes her ears itch.

But, in a weird way, it's never forced her to relive her past, something she knows would tear her down in a way HABIT hasn't been able to just yet — to not have the privilege of covering her eyes and purposefully look away, something she's done her entire life, would ultimately devastate her. The raw brutality of it all — damn it to all hell.

And yet, here she is; it's held out to her, right in front of her eyes and she cannot reject the offer. The nightmare looms over her, not awaiting her reaction or her frantic declines — it feels like the beginning of a roller-coaster; the way when you start to ride up, the hill so steep it feels as if you'll fall out of your seat so you dig your nails into the harness — and the bottom of this steep, deadly hill, is empty blackness. Maybe the harness isn't there to protect but to force her there. 

She's taken back to way before any of this transpires — specifically, to when she's five. And she's . . . herself. She is viewing the world through her five-year old eyes, which seem to find everything so new and intense — from the peers that walk along with her on the trail to the teachers and to the birds that chirp so beautifully along with her class-mates. They're on a field-trip, she remembers eventually, she and her daycare; hiking along a trail in some beautiful patch of wooded land. There's a playground at the very end of the trail and despite the humidity, there's an air of excitement. Stephanie finds herself eagerly awaiting for the swings, where Miss Patty will push her (despite her attempts at trying to teach her to swing, Stephanie's legs swing wildly on their own accord, which makes the two of them laugh wildly) and she'll beg for her to push her harder because she wants to reach the twig that dangles so close to her outstretched fingertips.

And even despite the playground at the end, the walk there is eventful on it's own — Stephanie finds herself gazing at everything, trying to take it all in at once. It's not the first time she's went hiking — her daddy's taken her out before, her and her mommy — but it's still so intriguing to her, down to every giant tree that stands so boldly to every bug that flies past her (and sometimes she'll reach out and try to grab them too) to the occasional pretty weed. If she's careful enough, she can stop and hurriedly yank the weeds up and hold onto them for a bit, determined to give them to her mommy, but eventually they drift out of her hand, deserted the ground far away from her.

One of her friends, a younger girl than Stephanie (only a year younger), bumps into her side and reaches for her hand, to which Stephanie happily interwines their fingers together, smiling rather toothily. Her friend, Nancy, has looked up to Stephanie, Stephanie's mother notices whenever she goes to pick her up; Nancy will often make it a priority to follow Stephanie around, fighting with the other boys if Stephanie gets into a fight, dressing up alongside her, and so on and so forth. Stephanie supposes the admiration came from when she gave Nancy a kiss on the forehead when Nancy had tripped and scabbed her knee — it startled her out of tears and calmed her down, and then a bandaid could finally be placed on her knee. 

It's during when Stephanie briefly questions the sudden hand-hold when she notices something; specifically, it feels as if someone is watching her. Not a quick, innocent glance, but an intense, mean-feeling look — at first she eyes the class, from Nick, who's notorious for being a (Stephanie's heard her mother say this and repeated it once; she remembers her dad laughing boisterously and then making her promise to never, ever repeat it) asshole, but he's focused on plucking every leaf off a bush if they get close to one, to the teachers, who are entirely focused on watching the more rowdier of the children. And then, she sees it. It was so silly, how easily it blended into the trees; it's limbs, so elongated and elegant, nimble and quiet. Stephanie thought, despite the odd feeling it gave her when she gazed upon him, it seemed . . . friendly, in a way. Where this conclusion came from was unknown but with a heart full of naivety and kindness, not yet to be tainted by the horrors of the world, it was hard to feel any true fear.

But it lacked a face. That was startling at first but Stephanie tried to not pointedly stare there; she remembers how she stared so intensively at a man who didn't have most of his fingers and how her mommy had chided her, telling her it was impolite to stare. So she didn't. And then before she could point it out to Nancy, who would've surely liked it, she had walked past it and when she turned around to see if it stayed, it was gone. Damsel wishes she could've kept her eyes down and never saw the fucking thing — but she never has good luck, does she? Is it luck or was it inevitable? Was her life damned from the very beginning?

The after-effects of seeing the thing didn't hit Stephanie until much later, while she was sliding down one of the bumpy slides — it was then she got hit with a seizure, certainly not the last one either. It was then her life had begun to decline rapidly, she remembers somberly. 

It's appearances began to increase, a sharp contrast to Stephanie's physical health — with every visit it paid to see her, the more intense and the worse her seizures would get. And they were incredibly delayed; it wouldn't happen during it's visits, it would wait afterwards, until Stephanie would fly out of her room in extreme hysteria, sobbing, trying to find a parent to warn them of it's reappearance and then it would hit her, as she's trying to climb down the stairs — and it wouldn't be until they would hear the thud of her body hitting the steps that they would fly to her, to cradle her, and to yet again, bring her to the emergency room. But sometimes a seizure wouldn't strike her after these visits, but a violently aggressive bout of paranoia and delusions. These were worse than the seizures, Stephanie thought.

It's the worst episode she has, the one she's forced to revisit. It's years later than her first sighting; she's seven. Stephanie's transfixed, looking outside her bedroom window; and there she sees it, almost so close that if she were to open the window, she could reach out and touch it, feel the material of the suit it wears — perhaps it's smooth too, like dad's — and the idea is so tempting, it practically beckons her. She finds her fingers feel around the window without taking her eyes away, feeling for the lock — success, she thinks as she blindly unlocks it — and the window slides open easily and as her hand dangles, a wave so intense of complete, raw terror sweeps through her, making her reel back as if she's been slapped. 

Her family, they're all in danger. It hasn't crossed her mind yet of her family being in danger of this — the worse of her paranoia has been surrounded more so around herself, her own health and her absolute determination of her upcoming death — but now, it finally hits and it terrifies her so deeply all she can do is press her hands against her cheeks, breathing unevenly. She doesn't notice that it's left, left with this nasty present unloaded across her brain like a barbed-wire rug; she's so paralyzed by the thought of this thing, infecting her baby sister and brothers, perhaps they'd even — no, they won't die, it simply won't happen — but — 

She tries to dawn back on what her therapist had told her, on how to fix these particularly awful episodes — get a parent immediately. But they're not important right now, right now the wellbeing of Naomi and the twins are; and they're in severe danger, it's climbing into the house now, IT'S CLIMBING INTO THE HOUSE NOW, I CAN FEEL IT, IT'S SCITTERING, SCITTERING LIKE A RAT, IT'S GOING TO SLIDE UNDER NAOMI'S DOOR, IT'S GOING TO TEAR HER SO EASILY LIMB FROM LIMB AND EAT HER EAT HER EAT HER EAT HER EAT HER EAT HER EAT HER

And it's then she flies up, leaving her room, as fast as her legs can take her, she sprints into Naomi's room, the door wide open (as it usually is; Naomi hates being left alone), Naomi happily sitting there, playing with her dolls. Stephanie barely takes in mind the normalcy of the setting, how Naomi isn't personally in danger; instead, without saying a word, she's grasping her biceps easily and lifting her, half-dragging her out of the room, and pulling her along for the twins room, who are contently napping. She barely registers Naomi's shriek, the way she doesn't recognize how hard and how desperately she's grasping onto her arm, nearly bruising the skin there — instead she barrels into their room, slamming the door shut behind, locking it.

The sudden commotion, ranging from Naomi's terrified scream to the slammed door awaken the twins, who blink slowly — utterly and deeply confused, and from deeper within, terrified. It also effectively startles Stephanie's mother and father, who, without any hesitation or reluctantance, halt whatever they were engaging in, and run up the stairs with speed they barely knew they had at their age (it truly surprises them each time an episode occurs). Stephanie doesn't make any notion that she notices the frantic thuds of her parents flying up the stairs and instead releases Naomi, runs to the window and attempts to cover it with whatever she can reach — from the curtains itself to clothes, tucking it into the more uneven panels, to toys, to anything — and eventually, it's covered, the happy sun snuffed out. 

It's then the twins, Christopher and Andrew, begin to cry, more so out of fear than out of their schedule being harshly interrupted. Stephanie stomps to the middle of their cribs and whispers, in a jagged tone that gets Naomi to halt her crying, to shut up and they obey, but only because that tone terrifies them more so. And as Stephanie's parents approach the door, the shadows of their footsteps dimming the light from in the hallway, the sudden terror reignites within her and THAT'S IT, COMING TO KILL US, THE CHILDREN, WE'RE AT IT'S MERCY AND IT HATES KIDS, WE'RE KIDS IT WANTS THEM

So she does something that Naomi will never forgive or forget — Stephanie grasps her again and pulls her, unwillingly, towards the window, yanking aside the coverings, and there she beats against the glass hard, harder, hardest and then it caves, the glass shattering outwards and, ignoring the flaring pain in her hand from pushing more at the hole to break the window entirely open, she hoists Naomi closer to it. She barely hears herself, screaming above the static — the static being of the frantic, terrified whispers of her brain, the deep rumblings of the inevitable future, the heightened sounds of her parents banging, pulling on the door (and she hears one pair of footsteps run off, probably to grab a knife to unlock the door or a key) — begging for the monster to leave her sister alone, leave her poor brothers alone, and if it wanted kid-meat, it could kill Stephanie, kill me, kill me, kill me —

And she holds Naomi closer to the window, as if to throw her out, and she damn near does — a frantic gesture to get her away from it, who's lingering outside their door, ready to kill them all — and then it's when the door is forcibly busted open, her parents there instead and they grab her, desperate, loving hands, yanking her away from the window, Naomi still safely clung onto in her hands.

Damsel can remember the ending to that eventful day too — the awkward dinner, with Stephanie's hands bandaged up (from the, unsurprisingly, another visit to the hospital), to the way she didn't eat, absolutely fucking ashasmed of herself and how she wasn't able to ground herself the way her therapist had urged for her to do; how she ignored the statement of her to go to her parents for help, and how she was damn-near responsible for fucking killing her sister. Dear, sweet, Naomi — who is calm, kind, and quite honestly, a ray of light — and Stephanie thinks, deeper down, the normal child, her parents love her more and it's common knowledge — she almost killed her. She couldn't look at herself during brushing her teeth and sleep didn't come. Instead, she heard the faint whispers of it, who wished she killed Naomi for it. And her brothers too, who seemingly got over that awful, awful event, only because they were so little.

She knew her family didn't know what to do with her and how to pay for the stacking hospital bills, how to treat her properly because the other therapists and psychiatrists and doctors seem to not know what they're doing — or perhaps she's unique, her problems are unique, but they all insist that children have such overactive, devilish imaginations; they imagine the worst sometimes, and for them, it's difficult to distinguish it from reality — but now, now she's become an actual, physical danger. But what could they do? Send her away? And allow her to think they didn't care about her, or love her? Or she's become too much for them? She'll grow out of this, she'll get better. Will she?

School was an entirely different demon in itself. She was a frequent target for awful bullying — the epilepsy, the delayed speech, the awful delusions and episodes she'd endure during school at random intervals — it put a large, blatant target on her back, and even though the teachers discouraged it everytime Stephanie reported it (albeit extremely nervously, aware that the punishment of one kid would unleash more bullying upon her), it never truly halted it. Nancy all of the sudden had lost her admiration for Stephanie because Stephanie grew up to be batshit, insane, a stupid crazy bitch — and for some reason the sudden loss of her childhood friend hurt her worse than anything else did.

An awful habit roused up, one she never acted on yet, afraid her acting would seem too . . . fake, too unreal — but she fixated on it eventually. She assumed that if she were to suddenly improve, that if she acted that she no longer suffered from these delusions, epilepsy was another issue she couldn't easily patch up and act as if it didn't exist, but she could control what she said and how she acted — if it were to show up, she would force the feelings down and she'd report better to her therapists. To try and fix the family she's destroyed. 

But this, this wasn't the true entirety of it's climax. The roller-coaster is still chugging along and it's about to reach the top. The worst, the true worst, is yet to come.

The true, tip of the climax — was when she truly, finally lost her entire family. And she should've known it was going to happen eventually, it promised her so; it had said they'd need to leave eventually. They were stepping in between, a large road block for her progress — her real, true purpose. It never directly said what her purpose was, whether she was simply going to be mentally tortured and killed off, or if she had a sinister futute rearing ahead — it was left to her imagination, her oh-so-dangerous childish imagination. She's eleven now. And this day haunts Damsel to this very day; it's something she mulls on a lot.

The day starts off incredibly normal, which should've been an immediate warning for Stephanie — but any shred of normalcy was welcomed for her. If she woke up, a bit content, her mind free of the whisperings and the static, then why complain and why question it? A genuine moment of peace, as well as she can get that is, is welcomed. And all throughout the morning — as she showers, brushes her teeth and brushes her hair, she finds herself worrying briefly about the lack of static and the lack of . . . anything. It twists and turns in her stomach, gives her wrenching anxiety, but even despite that, it allows her some . . . security. Some leeway for cheerfulness, a rare emotion. Most of the days she's sullen, moody, and snappy — but as she passes by Naomi in the kitchen, she kisses the top of her head and pokes her sides, giggling along with her, absolutely delighted. The conversation is light-hearted while they all eat, joking around and completely happy, unbeknownst to the slaughter the entire family other than Stephanie is about to recieve. And then, as she walks to her bus for school, her memory blanks.

She awakens a block away from her home, sitting down and leaning against the stop sign, unaware of the time and incredibly disoriented. Her limbs feel wildly heavy, as if they've all fallen deep asleep, prickling awake weakly as she shifts around, grasping herself, utterly terrified. It takes a second for the surroundings to ring in as familiar and she struggles to push herself up, the pain surging throughout her sleeping body. Something, entirely different from the fact that she's not at school, feels so off, so weird — so . . . not right. The way it should've felt this morning as usual but failed to; and why didn't she pay it much more matter? Why did she allow it? When has any shred of normalcy protected her or kept her safe before? When has the calm kept the chaotic at bay? If anything, it was a warning and it was neglected and that was her fault. She could've told them something and then —

And then what? Oh, it feels normal, that's not right? Or, perhaps, it feels straight, it feels perfect, it's the way my life should've been and now it's being turned upside down, once more, I'm a child, I don't deserve this, I'm a child, I'm a child — but it hates children, remember, Steph? Remember? And no, she can't remember, it feels as if her memory blots out into nothingess and that's the most frustrating of it all, the holes, there's so many holes, everything's colliding together into a fucking mess and she needs to go home, needs to go home now, she needs help — but will there be help to find? — so despite the pain of her limbs awaking, she runs, more accurately, sprints there.

And the ominous way her home stands, large, cared for, and familial makes the dread in her stomach grow immensely. It's then she notices the way the front door was swung open where it stayed there, as if waiting for her arrival — hello Stephanie, care to find your family? Will they even be here once you cross that threshold? Or will the house swallow you? And she hopes it does, truly does. She crosses the threshold and walks lightly through her room, peering around corners, the air quiet and so, so . . . quiet. The silence felt so heavy, like a barbell — and it sat upon Stephanie's slouched shoulders, the weight of this family hanging there. The cross is a burden to carry.

Where are they? Are they okay? Where is my family? Where is momma and daddy and where is Naomi, oh sweet sunshine Naomi, and where's Chris, who's so adventurous and unafraid of everything, and Andrew, who's silent but aggresive but altogether, sweet, where is my momma and daddy and where is Naomi, where is Chris, whwre is Andrew, Andy, Naomi, Momma, Daddy, where are they, where's Chris, where are they, where am I, where am I, why am I here, I want to go to my real home, I can't be here, I'm not supposed to be here —

And then, they were found.

Damsel is glad that the memory of this encounter darkens considerably, to the point it feels as if she's wearing dark, dark glasses — the lenses happily blot and blur the shapes of her dead family, all spread in a pile, awaiting Stephanie. Their limbs torn, their heads decapitated, even for the youngest — the sight blurrs and eventually fades away. But she remembers her reaction as clear as day; the way she shrieked in agony, sobbed to the point her throat was turned raw, to how she laid on top of the corpses and begged for them to come back, how she apologized, how she declared her love — but there really was no response. And panic had flew within Stephanie after she had finally faded to silence, tasting blood in her mouth everytime she swallowed — how would she be able to tell anybody about this? The cops? After everybody in her town thinks she's insane, an animal-killer, a wacko?

Covered in their blood too. How convenient is that?

So her panic worsens and she remembers specifically to something her father kept in the shed, something she's heard murderers do to try and cover up their crime EXCEPT I DIDN'T KILL THEM was to set a match in a gasoline-drowned house and the evidence would burn away. But she's not a professional arsonist, she's only an eleven-year-old girl. Eleven. She remembers sluggishly, almost crawling, to the shed, her family's blood smearing the grass, leaving a trail from the sliding glass to the shed's door, which she opened and there it fucking stood, the gasoline can. 

She pours it throughout the lower level of her house, specifically more so on the bodies — feeling the prick of tears well up in her eyes, rubbing them raw once again — and then, striking a match, she starts the fire. She watches it begin on the bodies, settling there and plugging her nose as the skin melts off of them and that strikes her so intensely, so aggressively, and it worsens when she catches the youngest, Andrew, who's burning and the fire is curling and running throughout the trail of gasoline she's created and she screams, a gut-wrenching, heart-curdling scream, and she rushes out of there, only to find one of her neighbors, Miss Gregory, is there, absolutely horrified. And Stephanie notes the flash of suspicion in her eyes, and never, ever forgets it.

The rest of the day melts away, like the house.

Damsel remembers how she lived with her aunt for the remainder of her middle school, high school years, but they weren't pleasant. It reached a numbing, grey sensation — the taunts were normalized to her and epilepsy remained at the worst and her paranoia, her intense depression, kept it's claws dug into her, and speaking of angry claws, it stayed too, and it hinted of the Worst. The Worst was unthinkable, but yet, it seemed to bounce along in her brain everytime the static would ring around — obviously she knew it was her fault for her family dying in such a brutal way. Everybody else in the town suspected so but since she was only a child and there was no real evidence (although the arson stint got her in a shit-ton of trouble) she couldn't be tried with anything. Their deaths were ruled as a wild animal breaking in, and that was that. Perhaps for them, of course. But for Stephanie, it always lingered, like a ghost of a touch.

But it had hinted, vaguely, that she was more involved than she assumed in the role of her family dying. And that was so much more unbearable than the actual sight and nightmares of coming across their bodies, that felt her own fucking sanity slip sometimes. 

Once Stephanie finally graduated from ninth grade, the urge to leave Alabama and to rid of her past and try and be normal (the word made her scoff) somewhere else was all-too convincing. Remaining in this town, the town that hated her would truly dispose her of her sanity. It was time to leave. If it wasn't the countless false accusations from the residents, blaming her for random, animal-deaths to the occasional elderly person dying, it was how she was treated by the police, who quite blatantly hated her. For what, she didn't know. Maybe they thought she was faking everything and she was doing this for fun. Maybe they had assumed that she really did kill her family — although how an eleven-year-old would go about decapitating and dismembering her family, they wouldn't answer when she'd angrily confront them whenever they tried interrogating her about that specific topic.

It was one of these times, when she was called in again, she noticed truly, how angry she was. Of course she noticed it beforehands; it made her jaw set tightly often, to the point where whenever it relaxed, it felt weird — but now, now she noticed how powerful it felt, burning inside of her, like a bonfire. Maybe more powerful than that; maybe like a burning house. More specifically, a burning, big house. It wasn't fair to be treated like this by the residents — who didn't know her, didn't try to know her, who had only heard the evil, hurtful rumors of her being insane — who had so . . . blatantly despised her, like the police. A child, forced to endure the loss of an entire family and a town who ostracized her. And for what, because she was mentally ill? Where was any support? The one friend she had abruptly dropped her friendship with Stephanie when she was in elementary school and ever since then, it's been a one-woman-show. She's been forced to grow up too fast, too much, and the only one there now was an aunt who barely understood her situation, but cared for her more than it felt like her own parents had.

The rage she felt she so desperately wanted to release it, to show how she really, truly felt towards these people who cast her out for what she can't fucking control — it would make her body ache, for the lack of releasing her emotions. The medication she was prescribed, which made her feel particularly icky, barely calmed the fire cast inside of her — instead, it numbed her to it. But there was enough outbursts — usually it was Stephanie aggresively reacting to her class-mates and now of course she's the bitch with anger issues — to the point where her medication was increased. 

With the help of her aunt and other family, who lived up in the North where Stephanie was planning to move to, she was able to complete and make the journey from Alabama to Maine. It was truly, a breath of relief for family to be up there, awaiting Stephanie because otherwise, there was no way she'd be able to sustain on her own, especially not with her episodes and her epilepsy — those hospital bills seemed to haunt her. And, of course, the move wasn't entirely coincidental. It had told to her to go North, many, many times; it wasn't a choice, whether she wanted to or not, it was her plans and the plans it made was set in stone. She had witnessed that the hard way, hasn't she?

Damsel liked Maine for the short, quick burst she lived there — all good things come to an end, don't they? The city she lived in was pleasant-ish and the family she stayed with — her other aunt, uncle, and two cousins — were incredibly gentle and patient with her, something that, everytime they were kind with her, made her want to burst into tears and leave. She didn't deserve it; she had gotten her family killed and family she didn't know believed she deserved the best but she didn't, she really, truly didn't. 

The roller-coaster is about to tip down, it's looming so ominously over the track that plummets straight down — she has no choice but to await, to relive more. 

It was a burst of good luck, Stephanie thinks for the few weeks things lighten (and lighten is used very lightly, haha) that she got to meet the group. She's still in tenth grade and, thankfully, everything's lessened a bit — her epilepsy has been kept at bay a bit and the paranoia's been wrapped away, tucked into medicine, medicine that makes her feel sluggish and too out of it but nevertheless, it's reached a pleasant mediocrity. And it seemed to go higher than that, to an unbridled, raw relief that swept through her powerfully, when she was reached out to somebody who's gone through what she has. A couple of weeks after she had moved to Maine, she had gotten access to a laptop, and there she had spoke about her experiences, eager for somebody to contact her and comfort her and assure her she wasn't actually batshit. And it truly happened.

The people who reached out to her were older, more wise, but they had understood the creature that had haunted Stephanie and had killed her family and, essentially, ruined her entire life. She had talked to each member individually (or as individually as it could get over a website, but nevertheless) and told her story to all, and in return, they told her theirs. It was so easy to trust them, to fall into that sense of security to feel, in a way, finally not fucking insane, the way everybody else seemed to label her. And if there was these people, perhaps there were others who understood, and maybe all of them could figure what to do. The hope, which shone through her like a beacon, made her feel so warm from the top of her head down her chest to her toes.

It took a while for them to finally be able to meet up — Damsel remembers how they all corresponded in group-chats for a few months — due to everybody's different schedules and how Stephanie had finally gotten into a hobby, one she fell in love with, but it happened. Stupid of her to think it'd go well, after all, all good things come to an end, don't they?

The dark lenses come across Damsel's vision as she tries to work through that particularly difficult memory; the faces are murky, the air is riddled with some mist that prevents her from looking too close, recognizing her old friends that she cared for, trusted, despite never meeting them in person ever before — but the scene, albeit twisted, is blatant enough. They were slaughtered so easily, in front of her own widened eyes, and the entirety of the scene didn't really hit, the realization didn't fucking steam-roll her over until she saw their broken bodies on the ground, the blood on her shaking, pale hands. And she know she didn't do it, no, not physically — but it took one, simple look to the right to see it, quite pleased with the scene — to know it was her fault. And it will always be her fault. She is bait; she is the worm on the hook for the innocent victims to swim to, hook on, and then once they're reeled, there it is, looming behind Stephanie, awaiting for her to bring it it's victims. 

She will never be able to live a normal or even a barely mediocre, secluded life — this cycle will continue unless she figures out a plan and does so quickly. Then it hits, as if she tripped upon it; the reason this happened was because she posted her entire life on her old blog (which has long been deleted), where the victims could find it and sympathize and respond with their own stories of it, this faceless it. Ignorance is key, and ignorance is bliss. There is no telling anybody, anything — regressing to the childish but dangerous habit she brought up as a kid felt sadly ironic to her, but now it wouldn't be to lying to a family; it'll be to any employers who question why she didn't come in today, to co-workers, to teachers. It was survival. She had to do it.

But for right now, it was time to leave Maine. So, she had begged. And begged, and begged, and begged — she wanted to move and wouldn't it be so beneficial to the house-hold? To move to another state and yeah, it might be so fucking expensive, but the scenery would do better for Stephanie and her notoriously shitty mental health; and she really slathered it on that, a tactic she fucking hated. But, as said, it was survival. And, finally, they agreed — and with other family help, AKA the aunt and other family Stephanie had never met and never cared for trying to remember — they moved to New Jersey, where that said family lived. In case of any trouble, they'd have backup there, which was reassuring and . . . deadly. So Stephanie made it a personal goal to get an apartment of her own once she graduated high-school and get a job. There already was money saved up for her, because of her mother and father, so it wasn't completely out of grasp.

The solitude would be so nice, so — different. No front to put up, no lying, no nothing; she could be herself, completely and utterly herself, and how nice and new would that be?

The goals were met, Damsel remembers a bit fondly. She was able to get an apartment, and, better yet, she was able to attend an art-school; something she put herself in so deeply and crazily. Art was the only escape for her, where she could paint and take out her uncontrolled emotions, like her violent anger to the intense, deep sadness, to the dullness, the grayness. It's there, during her first class there, that she meets Jessa, who approaches her, like the enthusiastic friendly girl that she was. 

She had sat with Stephanie, turned to her and fixed her vivid, startling green eyes onto her, and greeted her. Stephanie was taken aback by her friendliness but she responded; and since then, their friendship taken off, but very turbulently. Stephanie was aloof, unfriendly, and made blatant lies to avoid spending time with Jessa — but even despite that, Jessa persisted so strongly. Jessa was the complete opposite; she was bubbly, affectionate, and extremely joking. She pranked, she told dirty or clean jokes, her humor ranged from being bordering on dark to light-hearted, and it was her ever-changing range of humor and jokes that finally, somewhat opened up Stephanie.

See, Stephanie was something of an engima to Jessa — mysterious, quiet, and remained completely firm about keeping anything about her a secret, even the simple questions like favorite color, favorite movie, etc. — it intrigued her, the way Stephanie had been utterly fascinated by the nature she was surrounded by in the field trip as a child. It took gentle, patient prodding for Stephanie to open up, but only very slightly; and it took a while too. But Jessa could be patient, and her patience prevailed — months into their weird, kooky friendship, Stephanie had opened up almost entirely, her nature turning from outright abrasive to friendly, to playful, to silly, to loving and caring. 

But never once did Stephanie bring up her past or even the issues she faces now; she still sees it, quite frequently too, she's stopped taking her medication and the wean off is making her withdrawal, but even despite those setbacks, she continues to pursue this friendship with Jessa. And as more months past, the more stronger, deeper and more intricate their relationship get; to the point where Stephanie notices she's begun to rely on Jessa, more so than she's had with any other friend (but to be fair, she hasn't had any other friends so it makes sense, Damsel thinks, on how she attached herself to strongly to Jessa). She even remembers the time she had kissed Jessa; it was sudden and it was when Jessa was laughing too. She had simply leaned over and kissed her, right on the lips, and Jessa's eyes had widened and stared at Stephanie until Stephanie felt so uncomfortable in her own skin, she wanted to shed and run away. Scitter off like a rat.

And then Jessa had kissed her.

But no real romantic relationship took off and Stephanie, in a way, was glad that was the conclusion. She doesn't think she could take care of Jessa and herself at the same time — perhaps it's simple selfishness (which she knows she is), or not in the right mindset — nevertheless, Jessa had gotten into her very own relationship, with a guy named Jeff, who she talked so fervently and proudly about that it made Stephanie feel genuinely glad for her. Jeff would care for her better than Stephanie ever could and she hopes the guy never pulls any stupid shit.

All good things must come to end.

It's funny; how it appeared with Jessa hand-in-hand with Stephanie. During their very own hike through the woods, it had silently stood, hidden somewhat behind the trees but nevertheless, it was there and it was easily seen, if you squinted, that is. Stephanie didn't need to squint, not with her glasses — she remembers how Jessa had turned a bit, dipping down to pick up a stick she was planning on jokingly bopping Stephanie with, unaware of how Stephanie's hand became clammy, cold, and how it shaked. Any positive emotion Stephanie felt was, quite honestly, slapped out of her — it was replaced by numbness and then complete terror, terror she had lastly felt when she approached her large, empty home, full of her dead family. Corpses. 

Not Jessa, anybody but her, why Jessa, why her, why her, just take me instead, please, please, why Jessa, why Jessa why Jessa why Jessa why Jessa why Jessa we need to go we need to leave we need to leave we need to GO WE NEED TO LEAVE WE NEED TO GO NEVER COME BACK RUN AWAY BEFORE IT SCITTERS LIKE A RAT AND GETS YOU JESSA JESSALYN PLEASE LETS GO —

Without reluctantance, she harshly pulls on Jessa's hand and yanks her away, breaking into a run, practically forcing for her to follow along. She could hear her confused questions, the way her tone hit a frantic edge to it and that pumped her full of paralyzing anxiety even more so and it made her grip her hand tighter. She didn't release until they reached Stephanie's beat up, fucked up car and even then, it was hesitant. Jessa's hand had turned red from how hard Stephanie had held on, as if she let go, Jessa would disappear. Maybe she would. She remembers the silence between them, them panting heavily from the run, and how Stephanie kept her eyes trained on Jessa.

Damsel wishes she could turn back this time, any other time, she wishes she couldn't ever fucking go through this again, it felt extraordinarily painful; the numbness was gone, replaced by an unimaginable, blinding pain, a pain that made her wish her mother, her aunt, anybody was still around. She wishes she could hold onto her mother and cry, cry like she was a child, stick her face into the warmth of her mother's chest and sob — it's a stupid request and it makes her feel so ashamed for not being strong enough to handle rewatching her life, especially after being able to (somewhat) handle HABIT — she wishes she could punch herself. 

And then Stephanie tells Jessa everything on the drive back.

If only Stephanie knew that Jessa never saw it. 

After that, Stephanie ignored Jessa's calls; muted her messages and slipped back into a depressive funk, absolutely certain that she had sentenced Jessa to death; she was the bait, yet once again, but this time it truly was for somebody who did not deserve it. She ruined her life; if she didn't die, it would torture her the way Stephanie was tortured and how could Jessa, an angel, a free-loving, carefree soul, handle that? Barely Stephanie could and she truly thought she was the strongest, for handling this for so long. Jessa wouldn't be able to handle it, there was no fucking way she could — and it was then and there a terrible idea was born from these frantic thoughts and, worse enough, it had made sense from the get-go. But how could she? How could she ever? How could she . . . 

But how couldn't she? She already has so much blood stained on her hands, dried under her fingertips, stained all up to her biceps; it would be . . . but would it? But would she truly be better off dead? 

Yes. 

But how do you know? Could you really? Could you physically take her away, could you destroy the light from within, could you take her away from her family, from Jeff, from yourself more importantly, could you fix that? Could you? Are you it? Are you doing what it wants? You are the real monster after all, aren't you?

During these weeks, these awful, intense weeks, where these periods of madness would succumb her and she felt so utterly useless and worthless — she wanted to run away again, but the idea of running again seemed so distasteful to her, so . . . cowardly. She's ran away enough. And there was something quaint about where she lived and art-school was nice enough. And Jessa, but Jessa — but she can't handle this. But maybe she's overlooking her own strength, maybe Jessa can handle it — but she couldn't allow her to deal with that. She didn't deserve that hell. 

Scittering like a rat.

That's what she was, the real fucking rat. A rodent.

What she did was unforgivable. The memory is murky too, the way her family's and the group's was to her but the gist of it captures enough — the arching spine of the axe in the air, the cool mist of the woods, the buzz of the nocturnal bugs, and the cries. Her screams. The blood, the way it squirts, flies, douses her face, her clothes — she's so glad she wore a mask. If Jessa had figured out it was Stephanie who fucking murdered her, to keep her safe and away from it, if her beautiful eyes fixed upon her and widened, saw the truth — who knows what could've happened. The lure was easy enough; she called Jessa and asked for her to meet up at the park, at evening, and they'd speak more about . . . it. But, deeper in the woods, she shrieked, hoping it'd lure Jessa in, make her think something was wrong. And she fell for it. The way her body falls, twitching, how the blade buries within her again, more and more, to insure she was dead. And then . . . the way it disappeared. Her body. It made her disappear. It was proud of her and that proudness made a festering, deeply-rooted hatred of herself peak so intensely that it made her skin crawl, the hair on her arms stick up.

And the anger, the anger that she had to lose everybody she cared for, how she would lose more, she was sure of it, it was so fucking unfair it was so fucking unfair IT WAS SO FUCKING UNFAIR IT WAS SO FUCKING UNFAIR I DON'T DESERVE THIS I DON'T FUCKING DESERVE THIS I'M GOING TO KILL YOU — it made her fists ball up and she punched a tree so hard her knuckles cracked and her hand broke but the pain simply didn't register; she was so deep, so overwhelmed with her rage, that all she could sense and breathe and feel was it. She remembers angrily kicking the shit out of some poor plant, it bowing and snapping as she screamed, her throat turning raw and damn-near almost bloody, flinging the glasses off her face, and, stupidly enough, crushing them under her shoe. Her raging fit, her tantrum, had ceased eventually (although the anger never did and it never will) and she was left emotionally drained to the point of numbness. 

The drive home didn't even process through her mind. She remembers going home but her memory finally blanked out after that — and the rest is history.


End file.
